Steam

by Stacey Rourke

  “You say compassionate. I say divine,” he murmured, the back of his hand whispering over her cheek.

  An involuntary gasp escaped Preen’s parted lips. That simple touch contained the crackling heat of a lightning storm on a sweltering summer night. Her chest rising and falling, Preen peered up at John from under her lashes. Raw desire dilated his pupils, his ragged breath matching her own. In the back of her mind she could hear the soft cadence of her mother’s voice warning her that it was indecent for a married man to look at her in such a way. That the spell alone was to blame. Unfortunately, a fog of lustful endorphins clamped a firm hand over the mouth of her conscious.

  “I warned you we shouldn’t touch,” Preen rasped in a throaty tremor foreign to her own ears.

  “I was powerless not to.” Bowing his head, the whiskers of John’s beard teased the tender skin of Preen’s cheek. His breath caused waves of warmth to tingle over her earlobe. “Your skin is glittering like sunlight off a still pond.”

  It took every ounce of willpower Preen had to take a step back in search of a clearer head. If the catch of her exhale revealed anything, it was her plan had failed. “Can you feel that?” she asked, watching the curve of his lips with carnal interest. “The heat in our touch? It has to be the incantation.”

  John matched her steps. Head cocked, he peered up at her with equal parts adoration and longing. Prickles of awareness surged through her chest, intoxicating her with his proximity. “You believe that to be all there is between us? A residual reaction to your inexplicable miracle?”

  Clamping her lips together, Preen forced a dutiful nod.

  John did not attempt another stolen, glancing touch. Instead, he raised his hand and offered her his palm. “Then lay your hand in mine and prove this all to be a folly.”

  Preen stared hard at his offering, her own palm itching for the connection. “Magic can have consequences we cannot even begin to understand,” she muttered primarily to herself.

  “I don’t believe in magic,” he rasped. The corner of his mouth moved against hers, whipping the air between them thick with desire. “I believe in a higher plan bigger than either of us.”

  Meeting his gaze, Preen found herself swept away in the lush emerald fields that rolled in John’s stare. Her hand rose, her fingertips stretching to meet his.

  The moment their skin touched, enraptured ecstasy stole the breath from their lungs in audible gasps. Their fingers weaving together exhilarated the bliss to a frothy fever. Sweat sprouting across his brow, John hooked his arm around her waist and pulled her to him with a firm, yet gentle, insistence. Right and wrong did not existence in that space. There, lived only the wonders of each caress.

  Elation found in his lips claiming hers.

  The thralls of heaven captured in her nails raking down his back.

  The haze of their yearning a heady tonic as his hand snuck beneath her skirt to claw his way up her thigh.

  Temptation revealed the moment she yanked the laces of his shirt free.

  The pair collapsed onto to the floor, causing particles of dust to dance in the light cast by the lantern mere inches from where John’s ailing wife rested.

  Preen sucked in a sharp intake of breath at her first intimate stab of burning pain, the sound morphing to a throaty moan at the rush of pure pleasure that followed. Her hands grasped the back of his sweat dampened shirt in tight fists, urging him deeper still.

  In the light of day they would find their regret. The epiphany of their sins would dawn with the morning sun, casting a dark shadow over every aspect of their lives. Be that as it may, in that moment their bodies melded together, lost in an enraptured embrace.

  Seduction’s blinding fog prevented either of them from witnessing Rose’s black eyes popping open. Casting a sideways glance in the direction of the writhing pair, a victorious smirk slithered across her blood-stained lips.

  Chapter 10

  Ireland

  For the first time in weeks Ireland was awake. Not conscious and stumbling through the purgatory of her existence, seeking solace in nightly rides in search of mayhem, but truly awake in a world where darkness no longer reigned. Pushing herself up on one elbow, her body was jostled rhythmically from side to side, a low, steady rumble emanating from beneath her.

  “You’re angelic when you sleep.” Rip’s shimmering form sat across from her, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee. His elbow would have been resting on the arm of the sable leather chair beneath him, if he wasn’t hovering three inches over it. “However, you drool like a Saint Bernard. There were actual bubbles. I found myself both repulsed and impressed that you didn’t drown.”

  A smile spread across Ireland’s face that felt foreign, yet incredibly welcome. Her index finger traced small circles in the lacy fabric of the cuff making this impossibility real. “I missed you, you crotchety old goat.”

  “I never left you, you obstinate, hard-headed child.” Rip’s face glowed with paternal love—and paranormal ectoplasm.

  The moment was interrupted by the shush of a pocket door sliding open. Noah stepped into the quaint room, closing the door behind him. “Look who’s awake.”

  Rubbing a vigorous hand over her face, Ireland scanned her surroundings. The room was no wider than the double bed she was laying on, its ivory bedding offset by the cherry-stained woodwork that paneled the walls. The only other furniture in the room were two matching chairs—one of which Rip sat above—and a small polished oak table. “Are we on a train or did you have me committed?”

  Squatting beside the bed, Noah finger-combed her unruly hair. “Both good guesses, but train is the right answer. The privately owned train of HG Wells, I might add. How are you feeling?”

  Ireland contemplated the question before answering. “I don’t want to kill or maim anyone, so that’s an improvement.”

  Noah’s hand stilled, giving one strand a gentle tug before he cradled her face in his palm. “Actually being able to see you again is an improvement.”

  Sitting up, Ireland curled her legs under her.

  “I got lost for a little while,” she admitted to the stained cuffs of her filthy jeans. “Those men that I hurt …” Biting her lower lip, she let the looming question trail off.

  “Wells took each back in time and got them out of the way before you could strike. Which, from the way he explains it, means the battered versions just vanished. As far as they know, you never laid a hand on them.” His eyes flicking to her shifting uncomfortably at the mention of her rampage, Noah rerouted the conversation. “We did call the cops for all those poor dogs. Rescue organizations swarmed the place. I don’t know what will happen to the pups from there, but they’re at least in safe hands.”

  Ireland rubbed her hands up and down her arms, fighting off a chill from overwhelming guilt. “If even one of them can be saved, then at least something good came of this.”

  “Oh, one was saved,” Noah and Rip chorused with matching mischievous tones, although only one of them was aware of it.

  Lips pursed, Ireland glanced from Noah to Rip and back again. “I’m missing a crucial piece of this puzzle and it fills me with blind terror.”

  “Remember that dog that Regen saved? The injured pit?” A smile tugged at the corners of Noah’s mouth, as if he was desperately trying not to laugh. “Well, we needed to get Regen out of there before the police arrived. He refused to leave without the dog. So …”

  “Your undead stallion has a pet pit bull,” Rip picked up where Noah left off.

  Ireland stared at the plush forest green carpet with its tiny white diamond print in hopes of find further explanation in its thick weave. “I … can’t even begin to fathom how that works.”

  Rip’s jaw worked, chewing on the quandary. “I think the basic premise—”

  Raising one hand, Ireland halted him. “Don’t, it makes my head hurt.”

  “What does?” Noah asked. Brow furrowing, he scanned the room for what he was missing. “Is Rip here now?”

&
nbsp; Slapping his hands to his transparent knees, Rip pushed himself to standing. “As fun as it would be to haunt your beau into a sniveling mess, I think I shall give the two of you a moment.”

  Eyes snapping open wide, Ireland stifled a threatening whimper.

  “What’s happening?” Noah rocketed to his feet. Arms tense and akimbo, he spun in a circle anticipating impending doom. “Are weapons about to come bursting through the walls? Because you have got to start warning me of that!”

  “Rip’s leaving!” she erupted in a plaintive whine that made her judge herself horribly.

  Noah’s lips clamped in a thin line. Glancing around the room, his shoulders rose and fell in a confused shrug.

  “A momentary excursion to grant the two of you a bit of privacy!” her spectral friend clarified, hands raised to calm her hissy fit. “I will return and you have that handy piece of jewelry to know the moment that I do. I also feel I should remind you that I have no solid form. If you try to latch onto my ankle to prevent me from leaving, you’ll fall right through.”

  Leave it to a bit of snarky humor to ease her back from the brink. “Don’t flatter yourself. It takes more than a grumpy, old ghoul to make me go stage five clinger.”

  “Yes, quite. You were the picture of cool aloofness during my absence,” Rip countered. Punctuating the sentiment with a curt bow, he took a step forward and sank through the floor like a lead anchor in open water.

  Instinct lunged Ireland off the bed to catch him—nothing but air whistling between her fingers.

  “I have no idea what’s happening right now,” Noah ran one hand over the rough stubble of his chin, “but this will be a fun new facet of your character to adjust to.”

  Before Ireland could fill him in, Rip’s head popped up from the floor looking stunned and disheveled. An unfeminine bark of laughter choked from her lips as he floated up to full height.

  “I did not intend to do that.” In a blink the ruffled wisps of his scraggly hair and beard tidied themselves. His unsettled expression, on the other hand, seemed stuck. “It was most disturbing.”

  “How about if you exit the old-fashioned way?” Ireland suggested, jabbing a thumb in the direction of the door.

  “Me?” Noah swiveled from her to the door and back again.

  Ireland corrected him with a slight shake of her head.

  “I see you date primarily for physical appeal and not intelligence,” Rip chuckled to himself. Instead of ducking around him to get to the door, Rip passed right through the bewildered Van Tassel—who shivered at the contact.

  “He just violated me, didn’t he?” Noah nodded even as he asked the question, already confident in the answer. “Walked right through me.”

  “If it helps, he mentioned you were attractive beforehand.”

  “Not really. But as we suddenly find ourselves truly alone, I couldn’t care less.” Noah closed the distance between them in one resolute stride. The tips of his fingers slid around her neck, brushing over the sensitive spot where her pulse had begun to pound. His gaze focused on her lips, he traced his thumb over their gentle curve. “Come with me,” he murmured, the fingers of his free hand lacing with hers.

  Ireland let him tug her along, fitting her feet into each of his boot prints left in the thick weave carpeting. Focusing on such an insignificant detail distracted from the gaping hole of anguish pulsating in her heart caused by that open display of vulnerability. It was pure torture to the darker side of her nature, which cowered somewhere in the far recesses of her mind, but she was feeling something and that alone was bliss.

  The bathroom was pint-sized, two people could fit if one was willing to stand in the square foot shower stall.

  “Relationships are made or broken in conditions like this,” Ireland remarked, gliding one fingertip over the postage-stamp sized black granite counter with its shimmering flecks of gold.

  At her feet, Noah dropped to his knees to unlace her boots and slide them off. “Step into the shower,” he suggested, his voice a husky whisper.

  Hitching one eyebrow, she obliged. The flush in her cheeks hinted at her rising interest to discover his agenda. His skillful fingers peeled off each layer of her clothing, brushing over her curves but not lingering there.

  “Mr. Van Tassel, are you trying to seduce me?” Ireland murmured, adopting her best sexy-vixen drawl.

  Noah glanced up at her from under his lashes, his hands hovering over the snap of her jeans. The glow from the overhead light fixture warming his hazel eyes to a deep amber. “If I was, your toes would already be curling. For right now, shut up and let me take care of you.”

  His eyebrows rose, daring her to argue.

  Ireland pointedly clamped her mouth shut … after she made a show of dragging her tongue over her “parched” lips.

  Shaking his head with a wry smile, Noah countered her act by unsnapping her pants and easing down her zipper. Ireland let her head fall back, enjoying the sensuality of the moment … until she caught a glimpse of herself in the narrow mirror across from her. Her breath caught, tears welling in her eyes. Every inch of her exposed flesh was marred by bruises and scrapes. And she couldn’t recall the origins of any of them. Whatever the Hessian had done—no, whatever she had done—if it had battered her this badly, she could only imagine what became of the poor saps that found themselves her play-things of the moment. Dropping her chin to her chest, she peered down at Noah, one tear streaking down her cheek and dripping into his golden strands. He had to have seen the markings, yet silence was his only response. A more delicate touch acted as the only indicator he’d noticed anything at all was amiss.

  Shimmying her jeans over her thighs, he cast them aside and pushed himself off the floor to snag the detachable shower head from its clasp. Ireland stood before him—naked and exposed in every conceivable way. Her arms curled in self-consciously, yet her physical state of undress was not to blame. Each plum-purple mark or angry red slash burned into her, as if each represented one of her plethora of sins. Turning the faucet on, Noah checked the temperature on his hand before holding the nozzle up to let the cleansing warmth wash over her.

  Ireland stepped into it, her face crumbling under the tidal wave of emotion that dragged her down to the depths of despair. “I was trapped. I couldn’t break free. I don’t remember what I did or who I hurt. Look at me!” She held up her arm in front of him, only to have him rub a soapy loofah over it and then continue on down the length of her frame. “If the monster has marks like this, what are the chances the victim is still breathing?”

  Still, Noah said nothing—his face a white-washed wall for her to bounce whatever nagging thoughts she needed to off of. Popping open a bottle of shampoo, he eased her head back to work the lilac scented suds into her scalp.

  “I thought I could keep it in check. I thought I had it handled. Instead, I became what I feared most, and I’m not sure there’s any coming back from that.” Ireland closed her eyes as Noah raised the faucet to rinse her off. The tears that poured down her face in torrents were washed away by the cascading water.

  When the last of the soap bubbled over the drain at Ireland’s feet and her tears slowed, Noah gently turned her away from him to work conditioner into her hair.

  “After all of that, all the people I hurt, fate gave me Rip back,” Ireland said in a barely audible whisper to the white tile wall in front of her. “For one deluded moment I thought just because I broke free and could see Rip again that everything would go back to the way it was.”

  Guiding her head back, Noah ran the water over her hair, a satin streak from conditioner remnants flowing down her spine. The last of it gone, he shut the water off, leaving Ireland Crane purged of the filth that had tainted her inside and out.

  Her foot squeaked over the wet tiles as she turned to face him. The tears had stopped, leaving a heavy cloak of sorrow behind. “I don’t deserve to have him back.”

  Unfurling the terry cloth towel, Noah cocooned her in that, and the security of his emb
race. For the first time a hint of his own turmoil broke through his stoic façade, revealing a glimpse of the man beneath that was broken and aching for the woman he loved. “Someone thinks you do,” he rasped, his voice gruff with emotion, “and I couldn’t agree more.”

  Ireland wrapped her arms around him, breathing him in with greedy gulps. If he could still love her, if he still cared, maybe she wasn’t a lost cause just yet.

  Chapter 11

  Preen

  The forest had always been a source of comfort and solace to Preen. Now it was tarnished by her disparaging thoughts. The chirp of the crickets, the watchful eyes of the owls perched high, the croaks of the toads sharing their tales of the day; none of this was hers to cherish. Not anymore. Her kinship to nature had been severed by her unthinkable actions—from which she’d fled while John still slept.

  Her bruised aura urged her to beseech the Goddess for comfort. Even so, she clamped her teeth down on the well-practiced verse. The Goddess, in her kind and gentle nature, would forgive Preen her atrocious trespass. Preen could not. In her mind she deserved the very worst the Puritan tyrants of Salem could dole out for allowing magic to sweep her up at the cost of her maidenhood. Would others know of her guilt merely by looking at her? Self-reproach told her yes, that her debauchery had so sullied her spirit that anyone who gazed upon her would see the mark of the adulteress. It may as well have been embroidered into her skin with golden thread in a fantastical flourish.

  Her cabin had just come into sight when a chill skittered down Preen’s spine. Goosebumps bubbling up and down her arms told her she wasn’t alone. Somewhere in the darkness something lurked … watching her. Gaze flicking to the beckoning beacon of her front door, she contemplated darting there before whatever it was could strike.

  Leaves crunched behind her, whipping Preen around with her breath caught in her throat. It wasn’t yellow eyes and saliva dripping fangs that emerged from the night’s blanketing shroud, but the frail yet nimble frame of Margot.